Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who looked over this chapter. ^_^
-L-
(Delivered by message hawk.)
Ysolda's House, Whiterun
Second Seed 23
Dear Leandra,
I was a little surprised when Vignar Grey-Mane asked me to forward a letter to you as quickly as I could. The man needs to work on his people skills, doesn't he? A bit terse for someone asking a favor. If he hadn't said you were waiting to hear from him, I'd have told him to hire a courier like any other honest man. As it was, I charged him a pittance for using our private business system for his personal whatever, since you didn't warn me he'd be using our hawk.
It is a wonderful way to communicate, isn't it? So much safer and reliable than couriers.
Do I sound out of sorts? Ugh. I'm sorry. It's not really Vignar (who paid up without a fuss). It's that trip that ran through Falkreath. Normally, I enjoy passing through there, but apparently Dengeir's… condition… has taken a turn for the worse. Some out-of-town personage sat too close to his chair and he raised such a fuss! I'm not exaggerating: he was going on like someone threatened him, and hands were going towards mead bottles and weapons in case he exploded all over the place. I was waiting for him to do so!
Tekla and Valga managed to talk him down, but the look he gave them… it made me shiver.
Anyway, I've been worrying over that. The man is clearly off his rocker, and something must be done before he hurts someone! I'm all for honoring our heroes and respecting our elders, but not to the point of letting them hurt someone because of the bent their madness is taking. I wonder, do you have any suggestions? Poor Narri—you know her, she's such a dear and such a sunny-souled person—was almost in tears.
Yours,
Ysolda
-L-
(Enclosed in Ysolda's letter.)
Jorrvaskr, Whiterun
Second Seed 23
To Madame Grey,
The men you wanted to protect that investment in Whiterun's future about which you spoke to me have been found. I will stand surety that they will do what you ask, when you ask, how you ask it, without trying to think about anything beforehand unless otherwise instructed. They're smart enough to follow the directions of those who know better.
Also, the investment's current caretaker is fiercely protective. If she felt the investment would be better served by aiding your plans, she would certainly not hesitate to do so. She has not been approached at this time, but is a relation of one of the men I mentioned. Something for you to consider.
Cordially,
Vignar Grey-Mane
-L-
(Forwarded from Whiterun)
Proudspire Manor, Solitude
Second Seed 24
From the desk of Mme. Ashlynn
To my dear Lady Grey,
I speak from my great love for you, my dear: take that steaming pile of mammoth shit and toss it out the nearest window. You're thinking too hard, again. I love you, darling, and you're one of those people who is either loved or disliked, but rarely anything in-between and even more rarely is one state mistaken for the other.
As for not having set a stitch for your trousseau, this message should come accompanied by those assembled by my late daughters. Goodness knows I have no use for them. I would rather find them a good home than let them be consumed by moths. You know I'm not overly sentimental. If you find them not to your liking, sell them or send them to the nearest charitable effort—it's all one to me. They bring back memories that are… painful.
Speaking of painful, my husband's health has begun to fail in earnest after bringing him news that our family was now bereft of both its children. I know you aren't fond of Marcus, but I trust in your fondness for me: if he cannot rally himself, it is entirely possible the Box of Wonders may come up for sale in the next year or eighteen months as he will be unable to manage it himself, and currently has no one trustworthy to delegate its running to. As you know, we have a substantial client base and many connections the enterprising young entrepreneur might find useful. If you have a business partner or a trusted clerk who could manage the place, I think you would find yourself not the loser.
Just something to think about.
Yours,
Mme. Ashlynn
-L-
(Message hawk intercepted before delivery completed.)
Second Seed 25
Le Hotel de Marguerite, Rue Lorraine
High Rock
To Lady Grey of Windhelm,
Having given the matter much thought, and finding my wife favorable with regards to traveling for this project, I will gladly come to your cold country to see what my gifts can do for your poor palace—the Palace of the Kings. Such a name! And a building of distinguished heritage! Oh la, the anticipation makes the blood sing in my veins! I shall do it! Indeed, it shall be a marvelous reprieve from the requests for ornamenting holy edifices that have become much of my bread-and-butter work. Not abating the respect I have for the clergy, but they do lack imagination!
Ah, let me not weary your gracious eyes with the troubles of a humble artist! Truly, with all I have heard of your stricken Province, such woes are far beneath consideration.
My family—without whom I refuse to take one step, not even a little hop-skip, abroad, as I cannot bear to be separated from them—and I will leave shortly after the sending of this letter, and arrive in Windhelm between the sixth and ninth of Midyear. We are a party of four: myself, my lovely wife Marguerite, and our two magnificent children, Anne and Henri. I hope their presence will not strain the household for which you seem responsible, dear lady, but as I said, I never travel alone and as the patron of this project is a king in his land, I hope he will not object either. You need not concern yourself about the children: they are well-behaved, and old enough to know how to conduct themselves when visiting.
I greatly look forward to meeting you and to seeing this space which troubles you so.
Yours most sincerely,
M. Roche-Guyon
-L-
Knowing from Suvaris' journal that I needed to find one Stig Salt-Plank, and find out what he knew, I set forth on horse for Dawnstar, taking Mjoll with me.
I did mildly regret the trouble my meddling was causing poor Suvaris, when I saw her devouring a massive plate of one of Candlehearth's richest desserts as if she would find an answer to a burning question at the bottom. The poor dear does watch what she eats so closely; that decadent dessert just ensured she pays several days of penance for the splurge.
With reports coming in from so many locales as my sources expand and become more adept at gathering information for me, as well as my regular correspondences with Ysolda (and others) about our legitimate business, I'd begun to wonder if I didn't need a private secretary to help me manage at least the less sensitive bits. Suvaris would be a good choice. If she believed I was truly interested and dedicated to reforming some of the problems Windhelm is experiencing thanks to Ulfric's permissiveness in how his 'true sons and daughters of Skyrim' tripe was interpreted by the masses, she'd be a very dedicated assistant if it meant her mouth (and her people's needs) were being directed to someone with open ears and the capacity to do something. Mjoll has a reputation as a friend to the friendless, and I've maintained cordial relations with Suvaris since settling in Windhelm.
That, and I will feel responsible if the Shatter-Shields fire her over this mess. They might just do it, once my planned trap springs shut. Spite is not an unheard-of thing, nor are scapegoats.
Shaking myself, I glanced around Dawnstar. It's a ramshackle capital for a Hold to have, barely a fishing village on the northern coast of the Sea of Ghosts. But it is the biggest town in the Pale, and that makes it the capital. It looks, in this light, like a town built from the wreckage of unlucky ships. Like Falkreath and Morthal, it's a minor Hold, and its minority shows.
And apparently someone had troubles of their own: one of the residences seemed to have been burned to the very ground, but not rebuilt.
Ostensibly, I was here to deliver the letter from Ulfric, detailing this mysterious Dunmer potential assassin, and warning Jarl Skald the Elder to be mindful of his own safety. This was done in about two minutes, since it didn't really require conversation, just me presenting myself as a humble courier contracted to deliver the notice.
Mjoll was already at the Windpeak Inn, plopped comfortably near the fire-pit in the middle of the room… and close enough that if the band of rowdy sailors got too rowdy, she'd be on hand to do something to discourage them before things got out of hand.
"—we've got other plans for our mouths, dearie," one of the sailors leered at Karita, the very pretty barmaid—who fancies herself a bard more than a barmaid—as he spoke.
Karita, eyes wary and looking ready to bolt across the room to get out of reach, took two steps back and stumbled when she stepped back and found Mjoll's toes with her heel. "Oh!"
"Do those plans involve wrapping it around my fist?" Mjoll asked flatly, her eyes narrowing. She put a hand out to steady Karita, then gently pushed the girl back behind her. Mjoll is very Nordic in her looks, tall and muscular for a woman, and above all—unlike these idiots—not the least bit intoxicated. So to draw herself up too her full height possessed dramatic effect.
"Karita?" I called from the door, then moved further into the room.
The sailors didn't bother noticing my arrival, being concerned with Mjoll, but Karita was glad to have a way to get out of the impending fight. "Yes? What can I get you?" she asked, in the tone of someone hoping something bad wouldn't happen if she pretended it wasn't likely to.
"Warm wine, please."
"Or maybe—"
Whatever undoubtedly lewd comment the unwashed sailor meant to make—I do wonder why they forget that women in Skyrim are made of stern stuff—it never got past his teeth, because Mjoll's fist knocked the remark (and possibly a couple teeth) right back down his throat. He hit the ground like a felled tree.
"I suggest you finish your drinking elsewhere, if you can't do it respectably," Mjoll declared idly, shaking out her fist.
Thank goodness she had gloves on. I worry what that oaf's teeth—and their undoubtedly questionable condition—would have done to her hand!
A moment of silence followed, during which Mjoll continued glowering and cracking her knuckles deliberately, one by one.
Then with one explosion of motion, the fight was on!
Now, normally one woman against four or five men, even a woman as formidable as Mjoll, is going to have a serious problem. However, before the tide could turn out of her favor (or before I could step in and things get bloody, because I don't believe in fistfights if I'm participating) the first sailor knocked into the table which one fellow—certainly a member of the crew—had not abandoned when the tension began rising. He'd remained fixedly attending the task of feeding himself with the unhurriedness of disinterest in other people's chaos.
"Damn ye! All of ye!" he bellowed in a voice that would easily cut across the deck in a terrible sea storm. "Ye blighted whoresons!" His first punch laid out the fellow whose impact with the table knocked over the goblet of wine the man had been drinking, drenching his plate of food with the liquid.
"I told ye—drink as ye like, play as ye like, but don't drag me into your troubles!" Still shouting and cursing freely—it was a spectacular display of seaman's slang, let me tell you, and distracted at least one fellow (probably the youngest member of the crew) so completely that when Mjoll, seeing his inertia, gave him a shove to get him out of the way, he simply stumbled to one side but remained otherwise inactive.
The fellow shouting—and I assumed he must be the captain, the man I was looking for—sailed in, half belaboring his own men, half herding them to the door with his blows and noise to keep them from a fight they mightn't be able to win, numbers or no numbers. From the look he shot me, I suspect he recognized that someone like me wouldn't travel alone and that Mjoll fit the bill if one wondered 'who would travel as guardian for a fine lady like that one there.'
The last one to the door (carrying the unconscious fellow who took Mjoll's sucker punch at the start of the fight) received this fellow's boot to his backside, quite literally. From the sound, he made an ungraceful landing, tangled with his unconscious cohort. "Back to the ship with ye!" the captain fumed at his companions, wholly ignoring the panting, somewhat off-balance Mjoll. "And I'd better be able to invite me own mother to eat off any deck of that vessel without fear or shame! D'ye hear me! I want it glaring under the sun! They'd better see shining all the way in Atmora, damn ye!" He slammed the door so forcefully it bounced open. He slammed it again, this time it stuck.
He turned to Mjoll, glowering in consideration, then nodded once, stomping back to his corner, eying his wine-covered plate and empty goblet morosely… which quickly morphed into a fresh wave of exasperation. He jumped to his feet, bounded for the door, wrenched it open and howled into the night, "And ye'll do it on hands and knees, you filthy skeever-spawn! With your tongues if needs be! There's good use for your mouths tonight, lads!" He slammed the door again, still fuming.
By now, I half expected actual steam to begin issuing from his ears.
"Madame?" Karita called softly, holding up a goblet of wine, but looking rather unsure of how to take this dealing-with of the disruptive element.
I fished out the coin for it, then added a few more. "That man. He's Stig Salt-Plank, is he not?"
"Yes," Karita nodded, eyeing him with mild distaste.
"Give him another plate and cup of whatever he was having. On me." With that, I selected a table with a good view of the room and settled at it.
Karita arched her eyebrows, but carried the order to the bar, where it was filled. When Karita deposited the order with Stig, he said something gruffly—probably saying he wasn't doing anything chivalrous or gallant on her account, and I believe him—to which she responded by a gesture to me.
Stig, grimacing glanced back at me, eyed me as if he didn't quite know what to think, then shrugged, tipped his head noncommittally, and set to eating as if nothing had happened to interrupt him in the first place.
"How's your hand?" I asked Mjoll, once she'd relocated to sit across from me.
"It's fine." She pulled her glove off to inspect her knuckles.
The teeth marks in the leather of her glove indicated several missing, and…
"That's disgusting," I grimaced, delicately plucking part of a decaying tooth out of the leather.
Mjoll snorted. "Common for seamen. If you'll take my advice, stick with your young man, my thane. Don't go wondering if seafarers are worth a look. They aren't."
I had to laugh at this. "I wasn't even a little curious."
"Then if you ever go to sea, drink lots of the juice of citrons. It's supposed to help with your teeth."
Citrons in Skyrim? No wonder the sailor has tooth problems if he was relying on such a thing. There has to be a better way.
The city watch, led by a lad I hadn't noticed depart, burst into the Inn. The boy disappeared into the kitchen, as if he had no hand in bringing the watch.
"You're late," Thoring, who owned the bar and is Karita's father, growled. "I was about to give those bastards what-for," he put a cudgel on the bar, "and I wasn't the only one! You're lucky no one got killed! That lady there means business and is doing yours!" he pointed at Mjoll, who with a lazy grin, waved at one watchman… and winked at another, who gave a slight squeak and looked thoroughly discomforted.
Now, while Thoring hadn't stepped in, I don't doubt he would have if a fight had started or if one of those thugs put a hand on his girl. And if they thought getting lambasted by Stig was bad, I think it would have been worse to be assailed by an angry father. Possibly why Stig was so rough with them: maybe Thoring would remember the timely intervention and wouldn't ban him from the establishment, because the rest of the crew certainly wouldn't be welcome after this.
Mjoll's grin made me think the watchman might have been a youthful misadventure and just not made of stern enough stuff. He certainly went from pale to red, to the point that his nearest companion wanted to know what was wrong.
Karita, still looking out of sorts—by now grimacing with anger rather than with fear—filled a cup and brought it to Mjoll, murmuring, 'no charge.'
By the time the city watch left, I'd sent two more glasses of wine in Stig's direction. With the inn's common room finally quiet, I requested two rooms, then left Mjoll to join Stig, who was half dozing on the bench in the warmth of the fire.
Now, three goblets full of wine for a career sailor used to standing his liquor is really neither here nor there. However, three goblets full of wine for a man—even a career sailor—who's apparently been drinking most of the evening is more than enough to mellow his mood.
"Stig Salt-Plank, isn't it?" I asked.
Stig jerked awake, trying to eye me blearily. "Sure it is," he answered suspiciously. "Listen, if don't care of that buxom wench is a friend of yours or not: I'd not have raised a little finger if that oaf Ulrich hadn't gone and dumped me drink in me plate," he grumped. "Let her daddy raise goose-eggs on their hard heads, if they're going to be stupid. Lesson'll stick better."
Up close, his face showed lines that his chiseled shoulders and fit form did not. He wasn't quite old enough to be my father, but he was closer to that generation than to mine.
"I'm not here to talk about Karita," I answered. "I'm here to talk about the Blood Hoarkers. You sail for them, don't you?" A bit more up-front than I intended, but Stig's show of temper, his grumping and his age suggested I didn't need to be subtle.
"For nine years now," Stig agreed, but the line of his shoulders tensed. "What's it to you?"
"To me? Nothing in the world. To my client… well. There's lots to gold to be had plundering ships, isn't there?"
Stig swiveled so he could face me, leaning one elbow on the table. The gesture was perfectly casual, easy and unhurried. It also put him in a good position to pull that boot knife I don't think he knew I knew about. I carry one, too, so I know what to look for.
"Now, Master Salt-Plank, there's no need for this conversation to turn unpleasant." I gave his boot, and the hand lingering near the top of it, an accusing look. "I'm not looking to cause you trouble."
"Just the Blood Hoarkers."
"Well, if you wish to tell them to abandon their deal with the Shatter-Shields, and if you think they'll do so, then I daresay I won't need to."
Stig's eyebrows arched, his sun-browned skin crinkling like old leather. "I don't think anyone'll be talking them out of that. It's a good deal. War keeps the Empire nice and occupied. This is our… golden age." But something in Stig's grimace said he was quoting, and the words weren't quite to his taste. "You East Empire?"
"Not in the least. I represent certain Windhelm interests."
"That so?" By now, I think Stig smelled an opportunity.
I waved Karita to bring us both a drink, which she did. Stig ignored his, even though I immediately sipped mine. "You're right. I'm going to cause a great deal of trouble for the Blood Hoarkers. But I think I'd rather not cause as much trouble for you. You've much experience at sea, do you not?"
Stig snorted, which was disgusting because something caught on the rim of his nostrils and wiggled gummily until he wiped it away and wiped his hand on his trousers. "Since I were eighteen."
An idea hit me, quite distracting me from my inner distaste for this unwashed sailor. "Blue water experience?"
He gave me a withering look that clearly conveyed contempt for a 'landlubber' trying to sound nautical.
"I'll take that as a yes." I've had thoughts about a possible navy in Windhelm's future. It's a port city, but fails to take full advantage of the fact. Even if I couldn't get Ulfric on board—so to speak—with the navy idea, a few trade vessels of my own someday wouldn't go amiss.
Now, I know very little about oceans and boats and the like. A fellow like Stig, however… a lifetime on the sea has to impart something useful besides a resistance to seasickness. More than that, if he's been a lifetime at sea, the 'Nords only' viewpoint isn't likely to be especially strong: you get a lot of Argonians and other kinds of people in a port or on ships. And at his age… I wonder if he's ready to leave the sea and start delegating to other people. Once I have the Shatter-Shields where I want them, wrangling an overseer's position for an accomplished seafarer wouldn't be difficult. Then, I would have advice for the navy I want whenever the time is ripe to consider it in earnest.
"I have the impression you're not much enchanted with the leadership."
Stig grimaced, cocking his head. "It's a young man's game," he said bitterly. "You saw the idiots I'm wrangling. It's not 'cuz I'm good and can whip 'em into shape. I could. But it's 'cuz no one else wants to deal with their stupid barnacle-lined brainpans. Not a lot of my sort left."
I take this to mean the old seadogs. Piracy is piracy, but there are always levels of how bloodthirsty it's permissible to be—this varies from band to band—before it becomes 'unbecoming.' Bandits are sometimes the same way. "No, I imagine not. I need the name of the man running the show."
"No." Stig shook his head, then disappeared behind his wine. "Not my favorite person, that lad. Nor I his. But he's a clever little bugger. Makes sure the battles end right-way up. That's something, in my line of work. Drowning's an ugly way to go."
I leaned on the table as Stig was, considering the money I had with me and the wisdom of simply offering him a bribe straight out. "Let's say I wanted to… contribute to your retirement. Who would be the one complaining that I took one of his steadiest captains away?"
Stig chuckled, his teeth—in questionable condition, but probably not the sort to shear off and stick in someone's glove—flashing. He considered. "Two hundred gold." His tone said he didn't believe I had it on me.
He was right. But give me ten minutes at the nearest general store and I'll have it. "I see. Well, I shall see you tomorrow morning, Captain."
Stig looked confused, as if I'd done something strange. I suppose he figured I would simply withdraw meekly at the naming of a price so high. He shook himself, shrugged, then finished his wine. "I sail at the turn of the tide." He addressed the comment to the cup, not to me.
It was my turn to grimace. We've already established I'm a land-bound sort of woman. "What does that even mean?"
When I didn't get up, when it became apparent I meant to wait for a real answer, Stig laughed aloud. He also explained the phrase and what it meant with regards to Dawnstar local time.